


Christmas Future

by JayRain



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Scrooge - Freeform, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: Bucky knows he must have memories of Christmas, but they're as fragmented as a broken ornament. If Natasha has memories, she's not sharing them. But they both remember a story about a man, three ghosts, and redemption. Christmas past is gone; Christmas present is uncertain; but Christmas future is unwritten and full of hope for something better. Fluffy gift fic for DarthClaire!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darth_Claire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Claire/gifts).



Somewhere Bucky had memories of Christmas. Somewhere in his mind the colored lights, the scent of pine mingled with baking cookies, and the sound of ringing church bells and singing carolers had meaning and context. Somewhere in his mind he remembered a story about a man and three ghosts who found redemption.

"I know you're there," he said suddenly. He didn't look back, but his heightened senses never let him relax, and never let him be caught unaware.

Natasha slipped across the room, quiet as the spider she'd been codenamed for. She wore leggings, a baggy red shirt, and fuzzy green and red striped socks. Her red hair was loose around her shoulders, and in the colored lights from the Christmas tree, she looked softer and younger. He'd only ever seen her edgy, hardened by time and training. "Can't sleep?" she asked him, and he shook his head.

"I keep feeling like this should all mean something to me," he confessed. He dropped his gaze to his metal arm. The lights reflected in the silvery surface. "I _want_ it to mean something to me, but I don't know why and that's frustrating." He bit his lip and made himself look up at Natasha. "Once there was a guy named Bucky who had a family and friends and knew about… probably loved this time of year."

"Your Ghost of Christmas past," Natasha said. Her gaze never wavered from his face.

"Who's your ghost?" Bucky asked her.

"I don't have one," she said with a shrug. "I have no past. I've been too many different people to have just one past." Only then did she shift and look at the lit tree instead of at him.

"Do you ever wish you did?"

"It's not important because it can't be changed," she said in her typically even voice. She didn't look at him. He reached out his hand-his real hand-and lightly touched her sleeve. The red fabric was soft and fuzzy and warm, all things that weren't normally Natasha, and he unconsciously stroked her arm with a light touch. "What are you doing?"

"It's soft," he said simply. "So much of my past has been nothing but cold, hard edges. I think… I think that I hold onto the cold, the hardness, because it's what I know most of all. I want to be warm again, I'm just not sure how." The words tumbled out, like they did if he was writing them down. Once the thoughts started they couldn't stop until they'd all come out, leaving him feeling empty but relieved.

"So you're saying I'm your Ghost of Christmas Present?" Natasha finally looked over at him again. She rested her head against the back of the couch. "Because if I am, I'm going to tell you right now that all we're doing is sitting in front of a dead tree contemplating eating candy out of a sock." She pulled her hands into the red fleece sleeves. She had that coy, slight smile on her face, but her eyes were soft and sad.

"You don't mean that."

"Holidays tend to lose meaning when you're a world class spy and assassin. And when you've been unmade and remade over and over to be what they need you to be. But you know that."

"Better than most," he told her. Natasha was the only one who could come close to understanding what he'd gone through, because she had her own ghosts and skeletons. It made her efficient and lethal, just like him. "Do you ever get tired of that life?"

She shrugged. "Only life I know."

"You can still get tired of it. I was tired of being the Soldier even before I truly remembered I'd once been Bucky. I won't tell anyone, Natasha. I just… just need to know I'm not alone with all of this."

Natasha sighed and tucked her legs up under her on the couch. "No, you're not alone. You've got Rogers." He leveled his gaze at her, the hard calculating look the Soldier possessed when he was tracking a target. "Your scary face isn't going to work on me, Barnes," she told him with a ghost of a smile. "You forget that we were trained by the same people."

"I forget a lot of things," he told her, also smiling slightly.

She scooted toward him an inch or two, not enough to make a real difference, but definitely closer. "What _do_ you remember?"

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of pine and sugar cookies. Children laughing. It had been so long since he'd heard laughter and truly understood or appreciated it. Singing carols and hymns as the church bells tolled midnight during mass. Waking up to snow coating the walkways and the back stoop, running downstairs before dad had lit the fire, while mom put a Christmas album on the gramophone and his younger siblings sorted through gifts with huge smiles on their faces. Turkey dinner… sometimes ham. Tea and cocoa and gingerbread cookies for dessert. Trying on the new clothes, playing with the new toys… and then sitting in front of the lit Christmas tree with all the other lights off, listening to the wireless while more snow fell. Drifting off to sleep, only to have dad nudge his shoulder and gently tell him to get to bed…

"Hey Barnes." He opened his eyes. His cheeks felt damp. Dammit. He did _not_ cry. There would be hell to pay, and he clenched his fist. They couldn't keep taking this from him… "Barnes. Hey. Snap out of it. It's Christmas." Natasha scooted closer to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. He inhaled sharply and smelled pine and cookies once more and he focused on her face. Her brow furrowed slightly as she searched him for signs of the Soldier.

"What happened?"

"You were telling me about being a kid. And then you started babbling, going back and forth between English and Russian. Did they tell you they'd hurt your family if you fought back?" she asked. She rested her hand on his arm. He nodded. "They can't hurt them anymore," she told him, squeezing gently. "They can't hurt you anymore, either."

"Or you," he added, and she stiffened. "Trained by the same people," he reminded her. "Do you believe anything you tell anyone?" But he kept his voice soft, and he had no anger. Just sadness. It was awful that he couldn't fully remember Christmas as a kid, and all he had were fragmented images, like a broken ornament reflecting pieces of the Christmas lights. But Natasha didn't even have that. And if she did, she'd long since committed to locking it deep inside her. He'd never wanted to be the Soldier. He'd never liked _being_ the Soldier. But he suspected that part of Natasha liked being the Widow. It was more effective armor than anything SHIELD or HYDRA or anyone else would ever have been able to make for her.

"What did you do for Christmas those years on the run?" she asked, rather than answer. She didn't move her hand.

"Survived." There hadn't been presents or trees or lights, at least not in his dwellings. You decorated a home; those hadn't been homes, but safehouses. Fallout shelters. "Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, my birthday… just another day off the radar." He turned to stare at the tree. Natasha was warm next to him; she'd somehow scooted even closer, so her leg was touching his. He didn't move, didn't look at her or wonder about it. It was warm and that's what he needed. "I think I… maybe we… need to consider making holidays mean something again," he told her.

She ran her hand along his forearm. "I thought in that story that Christmas Present was supposed to be the good ghost. The one who shows Scrooge what he's missing out on. This… not so much."

"No, you don't understand," he told her, glancing over and feeling oddly shy. "You did show me what I've missed out on. And how things could be in the future."

She rolled her eyes. "Barnes. The Ghost of Christmas Future was creepy. Are you saying that I'm going to make your future creepy?"

He actually chuckled and it felt good to laugh. Like something inside of him released. The memories were still fragmented. It was possible they always would be. But the present was for making new memories, and the future, complete with its uncertainties, didn't have to be a creepy, terrifying thing. "No. That was _his_ future. Either way, he was redeemed in the end. I remember that much."

"I don't know if people like you or me can be redeemed," she told him, and the expression on her face was one of uncertainty, and maybe fear.

His real hand drifted up and touched her cheek. "We've got to become more than what they made us to be. That's what the Ghost of Christmas Future did for Scrooge." He bit his lip and made himself meet Natasha's eyes. "Can we make this a deal?"

"I'm not pinky swearing with you, Barnes," she said. She hopped off the couch and made her way over to the Christmas tree. She came back with two candy canes and handed him one. She held hers out, the crook toward him. "But I will do this." He held his up and they linked candy canes. "To Christmas Future?" She asked.

He smiled. "Christmas Future."


End file.
